Stitch Me Back Together
by Sarahaku
Summary: Before I met you I'd forgotten how to function. My needles pricked my fingers, I couldn't sew without shaking. But when I met you, my careful patience returned. I designed nine dresses, all with you in mind. I adored you. I never thought you would wear them. I never thought that you cared enough about a nobody such as myself- an empty shell, a failed copy of my awful mother.


My mother always had high expectations when it came to what I did. An extremely successful woman as she was, she was beyond simple determination to push me to the top. Right past her and right below her dreams, which were always climbing to unreachable heights. It was an obsession for her. And I was at the heart of it, the way she channeled her need to succeed. I was expected to practice my violin an hour a day. I had art lessons, I played three sports, I got straight A's in my private academy and was president of the sophomore class's council. I would not have been able to do much less. And that was not enough. She kept pushing me. More Kanaya, more, more. Knowing full well the venomous things that would sling off her tongue, I kept pushing. I did not wish to disappoint her. I convinced myself I wanted these things too.

I liked to sew. Mother never thought it was a suitable hobby by any means. I wasted my time, she said, that I could be using to learn piano or improve my watercolor skills. But she let me do it all the same. Perhaps she knew that it what was keeping me grounded. The ability to watch the needle of my machine thrum up and down over a hem, or to loop a needle into intricate embroidery washed away the stress that was otherwise always lodged within the back of my mind.

On a fall morning, I awoke early. I smiled serenely, watching flame painted leaves from the trees in the courtyard flitting past my window. I fastened the buttons of my gaudy paste-colored uniform shirt and slipped the plaid skirt on, adjusting the silken grey tie as I padded down the hallway to the bathroom. I wiped my eyes with my index finger to clear the sleep from them. As I worked at my hair, a peculiar nose reached me. I stopped, frozen with the comb halfway through my bangs, a hairspray bottle held in my other hand. I gingerly set them down and slipped further down the hallway into my mothers room. She sat with her exposed, slender legs over the side of her bed, her head in her hands. She still was in her nightgown, and her body jarring with her sobbing.

"Mother?" I called softly, sitting down beside her. "What has happened?" She turned to me, her deep green irises accented by the red that now filled the whites of her eyes.

"Oh, Kanaya," she whispered, turning and holding me against her chest. "My baby, my baby," she said, her voice broken.

"Mother?" I asked once more, unable to swallow. "What is it?" She stroked my short hair, running her fingers gently down the back of my head over and over.

"Your father. He... he is dead, darling," she whispered. She handed me a paper, folded three times over itself. I took it, running my finger under the fold with my nail, opening it as slowly as possible. As if the slower I opened it, the less likely the dreadful news within the note would not be true. As hesitantly as I read the contents, taking in every word, I knew it was true. My father had died in service. Medals were awarded for his skill as a general. I pressed my lips together, casting the letter away. What good were medals to the dead? Would a medal raise my father from his grave?

As horrible as his death was for me, it struck my mother with such intensity that she completely transformed before me. She rested most days in her bed, propped against layers of blankets and pillows, her eyes distant as she watched the television, or read a book, or ate. She became irritable. "Not now, Kanaya," was her immediate response to anything that I tried to say about anything about my latest doings. My violin recitals were no longer attended. In fact, the tutor was no longer paid and ceased to come. I still practiced every day for an hour, thinking it was what she would like me to do. I did all the things she had been so adamant that I do before the death of her husband.

After a while, she would not speak to me at all. "Not now, Kanaya." No matter what it was. She began to go out at nights and not return until early the next morning. Reeking of alcohol and the salt of sweat, she would disappear into her bedroom and sleep until past noon. One night she sat with me at the dinner table. She sat silently, her expression tranquil as she chewed. After a while, she swallowed a bite and turned her gaze to me. "Kanaya, darling," she said. "Don't you think you are going to start a life of your own at some point?" I remained quiet, shocked. She laughed airily, as empty and dead as she had become. "I mean, I can't just have you lying around all my life." I set my fork down, and dabbed at my mouth, trying to remain composed.

"Mother," I said quietly. "I am fifteen." She smiled softly, looking back down at her plate.

"Of course you are, darling. I think you should really be making something yourself at this point," her voice was laced with the intent to hurt me. I nodded mechanically, and looked away from her, furious but refusing to reveal it. Make something of myself? Is that what she thought? She had been a model, for God's sake! She hadn't made a thing of herself until she was at least well within her twenties! And now she was patronizing me, who was trying all I could? Me, who did not come close to having her slender face, her graceful poise, and all the beauty she possessed? I was trying my hardest, and it wasn't enough for this drunkard woman that my mother had become.

"I understand," I whispered. "If you'll excuse me, please." I threw away the remainder of my dinner and slipped away into my room. I tried to sew a skirt I had been working on, but I pricked my finger with practically every stitch. I tossed it aside, allowing myself to fall back onto my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I began to weep.

Tears fell for the loss of my father. For the loss of my mother. And for the loss of the faith I had once harbored in myself.

My life became hell. My mother returned to talking to me, but only when she felt the need to spite me, to bring me back down to the value she saw me at. My hand shook when I worked, and my fingertips became dappled with small red marks. Marks that reminded me of how little I meant to anyone.

I grew more and more vindictive towards my mothers newer, more impossible requirements. I stopped playing my violin every day. I let my grades move down to B's. I did what I wished, not what she did. I gave myself freedom and I saw it as spite. Because that's what she wanted me to believe that it was. She was trying to vicariously through me, and if I did not come out on the top, then she did not. I wished she could see herself, heavy bags under her eyes, her hair frizzed, her outfits slipping off her shoulders, the permanent smell of fruit drinks laced with vodka on hanging like a sickly perfume.

Finally, she yielded. She did not eat dinner with me. The most she said to me was a greeting. Or a demand to bring her a pillow, an aspirin, an ice pack. And I could not stop myself from hating her. When winter came, I joined no sports. I spent most days after school in the art room, painting pictures of women. They were largely of a woman with a sickly, greyish complexion. In my personal favorite she had pointed horns and was screaming with sharp dripping fangs. She reached out with green nail curled like claws, her stenciled eyebrows crumpled in rage. If you looked closely enough, she resembled my mother. I framed it and hung it above the fireplace.

One day, I sat alone in the art room, this time putting a coat of watercolors over a sketch for a dress. The model it was drawn on was a mannequin, as usual. "Oh, hello," I heard, stirring me from my empty daydreams. I jerked my head up to see a girl standing in front of me, holding a canvas to her chest. "I hope you don't mind that I'm staying to paint." I shook my head hastily. She was wearing the academy's uniform, and I recognized her vaguely but I did not really know her.

"Of course not!" She smiled, and moved away. The way she walked made her look like she was gliding. Her hair was short and blonde, cropped right above her chin. She hummed a bit as she put her easel up. With her back turned to me, I could see her painting. It was still half-finished, with sketch lines filling half the canvas. It was a strange painting of a large, multi-headed beast, filled in by several different bright patterns, each contrasting intensely from the next. She began to paint, and you found yourself turning back to check on her progress. You stayed around a bit longer than you needed to so you could see the completed painting. She took a careful step back, her heel clacking against the linoleum. She crossed her slender arms over her chest, smiling softly with violet-painted lips, tilting her head a bit to either side.

"It's very nice," I said after a moment. She turned, her smile widening.

"Oh, really? Thank you," she said. She slid over to me, hanging over my drawing. "Did you design that?" I looked down at the dress. It was black, with one long sleeve and one bare shoulder. Small purple gems started out in a thick cluster near the bottom and dispersed up the skirt, stopping a bit below the waist. It was not my favorite type of dress, and I could not logically make it. I didn't have nearly enough rhinestones for it. All the same, I very much liked the way the sketch had come out.

"Yes I did," I said, feeling foolishly proud. She nodded.

"I like it. Do you draw dresses a lot?"

"Oh, yes," I said, eager to impress her. "I make some as well." She nodded.

"It's a shame you can't wear them to school," she said. "I would love to see them." She walked back to the easel, carefully taking the painting over to the drying rack. "Do you come here most days?"

"Practically every day."

"Oh, I intend to start coming a few times a week now that my other clubs have let out for the year. So I guess we'll meet again. My name is Rose."

"Nice to meet you Rose. My name is Kanaya."

True to her word, Rose came back many times. We talked quietly while we worked. About literature, about art, music. Rose liked to talk philosophically and would often go off on a tangent about human behavior. "Am I boring you?" She'd ask, turning around and setting her paintbrush down on her palette. I shook my head. She had never once caused me to be uninterested in the things she said.

During school, I did not talk to her much. She had a small group of friends who were considerably rowdier and more attention-consuming then me. So I tried to leave her be with her other acquaintances. I figured that they were much more interesting than me anyway. But after a while, she began inviting me to sit with her at lunch, or to walk to classes with them.

There was always two boys at her side. One of them chattered with her a lot about just about everything. The other was a quieter, blonde boy. She and him often talked quietly, and they walked home together. I wondered if he was her boyfriend. They argued a lot as well, but they never seemed to be at it for long. They clearly were looking out for each other.

My affections for the girl began to swell. When she did not arrive after school I would go home early, feeling disheartened. I stopped shying away from her when we were at school but began approaching her whenever I saw her. I talked to her friends more, I became part of their group.

I drew a dress one day sitting by myself in the art room. I made it silken and elegant, training down to the ground with long, fanning sleeves. But instead of drawing a mannequin, I gave the model short hair and dark lips, a full face and a quiet smile. I started to design dresses with Rose in mind. When I stitched them up I dreamed of her wearing them. She always said she would like to see my sewing work. I made nine dresses in this fashion over the course of three months. Each one with Rose as the model. Each one designed with her in mind.

"Kanaya," she said one day. "Are you going to make your own dress for the sophomore dance?" I smiled.

"I don't think I am going," I said, keeping my eyes on my work. Today I refrained from drawing her as the model as to not alarm her. I knew full well that she would probably find it disturbing that I was using her as my inspiration.

"Oh? I hope you can come. I'll have nobody to talk with otherwise."

"You aren't going with the blonde boy?" I asked, perplexed. She laughed lightly.

"Oh, Dave? I doubt I would really enjoy going to the dance with my step-brother." I grew red in the face. "Don't worry, a lot of people say we don't look very much related. Which is likely because we truly aren't by blood. So, no, I don't have anyone to go with."

"Perhaps I'll go," I said hastily. I took a breath, then spoke again. "Rose? Would you like me to give you one of my dresses?" She turned.

"Oh, would you? That would be lovely!" I grinned ridiculously. "Do you mind?"

"It's fine. I'm only donating them at this point anyway, with so many. Why don't you come over when you have the time after school one day?"

"I always have time, frankly," she said. "Would tomorrow be good?" I nodded.

When I went home, I took out the nine dresses. I checked each one for loose threads, for wholes in the stitching, for a ribbon out of place. Once I was sure they were all suitable, I put them back in my closet

The next day when Rose came over was what could have been a disaster. But Rose didn't allow it to be, and it made me love her all the more. We had gone to my room, where I was showing her the dresses I made. She turned over each one, feeling the fabric between her fingers, holding it up to herself. I felt proud as she complimented each and every one.

And then my mother arrived. Stomping into my room with a crooked, uneven gait she slammed the door open. "Kanaya," she slurred angrily. I felt my face flush, glancing at Rose who looked slowly up from the dress in her hands. "Who the hell's this?"

"This is Rose, mother," I said scathingly.

"Don't you have,' she hiccuped, then fluttered her eyelids before turning back to glare at me, "Don't you have basketball?"

"I didn't join this year mother," I said through gritted teeth.

"Of course you didn't," she drawled, glowering. "Anyway, take your damned ugly painting off the mantel piece. It'll frighten the ladies." She waved her hand. "That reminds me. I'm having a party tomorrow and I'd appreciate it if you stayed out tomorrow night." She slammed the door shut and hobbled off.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled after a moment of dead silence. Rose placed the dress down.

"Your mother is she...," she trailed off.

"An alcoholic? I'm afraid so," I said, my face heated. I felt tears in my eyes. I hated her so passionately. How could she kick me out of the house overnight? Abruptly, Rose hugged my waist.

"Oh, Kanaya," she said. "My mother is the same way. I'm so sorry." I slowly hugged her too, feeling better. We sat that way for a while before she released me. "Where are you going to go tomorrow?" I shrugged, trying to seem like I had it under my control.

"I can probably sneak back in after I get home. It will be fine, she won't kick me out." She frowned.

"Why don't you come to my house? You can spend the night."

"Oh... I don't want to be a hassle."

"You won't be!" She smiled. "It will be fun!"

She went home after a while, and I felt nervous. What if Rose was only trying to be kind? I was really growing steadily more pathetic. I began to doubt that she liked me. I completely abolished the idea that she might love me as I did her.

I liked her house, though. It was smaller than mine, but still very nice. Her brother retreated to his own room without a sound. She walked around, seeming nervous. "Is something the matter, Rose?"

"Oh, no," she said distantly. "It's nothing." The words has hardly left her mouth when I tall blonde woman came into the hall. She grinned toothily, a martini glass clutched in one manicured hand.

"Hello Rosie!" She gushed. Her voice was a bit sloppy. "Oh, is this Kanaya?" She said my name in a strange, singing fashion. "I have heard _so _much about you. My Rosie can't-"

"Hello, Mom," Rose said quickly. I noticed the pink in her cheeks. "We're going to go to my room."

"Oh, oh, okay," she said, waving her hand. "I understand you don't want me hanging all over you." She hiccuped, and giggled. "Have fun!" Rose led me hastily across the hall down to the room at the end.

"Sorry,' she whispered.

"She seems very nice," I said after a minute.

"She's an idiot," Rose muttered, looking down. She opened the door to her room. The walls were covered in her unframed paintings. Of beasts, of girls in cloaks fighting them, of skies of different colors. I looked at them all as I spoke.

"She's much nicer than my mother," I said quietly.

"Oh, she's plenty nice, yes. But she can sometimes fall short as a guardian. All the same, I'm very thankful to have her." I felt a wave of emotion sweep me up. Why couldn't my mother be kind?

"Kanaya, are you okay?" I realized tears were in my eyes. I blinked and they fell, rolling down my cheeks. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't... I'm sorry," she patted my back, sitting me down on her bed. "Please don't cry. It'll be alright." I nodded, wiping my eyes and trying to scrape up the remainder of my dignity.

We spent the night reading, talking, enthusing about the dance. "Kanaya, are you going to the dance?" She whispered. The room was dark and I could only make out the outline of some of her features. "Have you decided?"

"I think I will," I said.

"Oh good," she yawned. "I was hoping we could go together."

"I know, you told me we would,' I said.

"No, no," she said. "Not like that. I meant like as a date, maybe." She laughed nervously. I froze, sitting up from my spot on the floor. I opened my mouth, but I had no words that I could make come out.

"You...," was all that I could form with my useless mind. She laughed again, forcing the noise.

"I would like it if you were to be my date, yes. I can understand... I can understand if you wouldn't like to. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked at such a time. I hope you're not upset."

"Oh, Rose," I said, my voice cracking. "You don't want to. I'm awful, Rose. My mother.."  
"Kanaya," she snapped. "Why do you think people love you as your mother? Because they don't. I don't. I like you very much and I don't want you thinking that she makes me care any less." I sniffed. Rose crawled out of her bed and sat with me, holding me against her, resting her head atop mine without a word.

"Oh, Rose... it's so awful. I've always...," I trailed off, crying into her shoulder.

"It's alright. You don't need your mother. I'll be here for you." Sitting in the dark, with the girl who I made so many dresses for, I was happy. A weight lifted off of me. I'd heard someone say what I'd needed to here ever since I'd had the violin thrust into my lap. I held onto tighter, and I refused to let go.


End file.
